


One More Perfect Moment

by Lost_Girl_02



Series: One More... [1]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant - Season 8, F/M, Mostly show-canon but some book stuff is in here too, Pre-Battle for Winterfell, Romance, Sansa-centric, but there's plenty of romantic development, pretty much every other character is mentioned, technically
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-18
Updated: 2019-04-18
Packaged: 2020-01-15 18:05:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18504271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lost_Girl_02/pseuds/Lost_Girl_02
Summary: Before the Battle for Winterfell, Sansa Stark stands on the ramparts of Winterfell, Podrick Payne by her side as she finds one moment of home. The fate of herself, her friends, her family, even the boy she might love, is uncertain, but that simply makes such a moment all the sweeter.Post 8x01, calculated predictions for 8x02Title changed from "A Perfect Moment"





	One More Perfect Moment

**Author's Note:**

> So I have only been thinking about GoT for several days and the exchange in my head that happens at the height of this fic appeared fully formed on Monday. Then I couldn't stop thinking about it and just started writing for a few straight hours and got this character piece on Sansa and a potential relationship w/Pod that I love and hope you do too!
> 
> There will be a longer A/N at the bottom about some of the specifics.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own GoT or ASOIAF. Clearly.
> 
> Enjoy!

The Long Night had finally descended upon Winterfell.

Sansa stood atop the ramparts, watching the sun disappear beneath the horizon, painting the sky above her home in the reds and oranges of her father's beloved Weirwood tree. The braid laying over her shoulder looked like it had been woven directly from the setting sun itself.

She had seen how the coldness of the North affected those who had arrived from the South—from the Dothraki that had scavenged extra furs from the wildlings, to how the Unsullied stood unflinchingly in the cold winds despite their thin leather armor, to how even her brother's new Dragon Queen was wrapped in warm, white fur that matched her silver hair.

But the North was in her bones. Sansa Stark, like the rest of her siblings, had been born within the walls of Winterfell and the cold had seeped into her ever since until it no longer concerned her. She could not be parted with the North...and she saw that now, after years of pretending she fit within the hot, wretched walls of King's Landing, of believing that all of her dreams would come true if she married Joffrey and became the Queen of all Seven Kingdoms.

"Are you alright, my lady?" A familiar voice came from behind her.

She smiled softly to herself, but never turned away from watching the sunset. "Come stand with me, Podrick," Sansa replied in lieu of a proper answer. "You don't need to hide in the corners like my shadow."

The dark-haired squire soon appeared in her peripheral vision, looking alternately between her and out across the grounds. She felt the heat radiating from his arm, even through the layers of his cloak and leather jerkin, against her own, the warmth seeping through her dress and into her very skin.

A blush rapidly heated her face, but she was quick to school her features into a mask of graceful dignity. It wouldn't do to have the Lady of Winterfell blushing like a maid because a boy was standing close to her! And after having survived in King's Landing for years under both Cersei's close scrutiny and Joff's mood swings, as well as suffering through months as Ramsay's wife, she had mastered the art of hiding her emotions.

"My lady..." he started, but she interrupted before he could finish the thought.

"You don't need to call me that at all times," Sansa chided gently, the title suddenly seemed too distant and cold coming from him.

"But-but, you're  _my lady,_ " Podrick emphasized, stuttering only briefly in apparent shock that she would ask such informality of him.

"I don't think that will matter very much in a few hours," she countered, Tormund's voice echoing through her mind. "How long did he say we had?"

"Until the sun comes up tomorrow," Podrick repeated the warning, shifting on his toes, his arm now mere inches away from hers. Ever since Jon had called all the lords and commanders and almost everyone of importance in the entire North into the Great Hall to tell them of what Tormund and Beric Dondarrion had seen at Last Hearth, the ominous words had been hanging over the castle like a fog.

"Until the sun comes up," she breathed, the last rays of sunlight slowly disappearing, giving way to a grayish-blue light. "That's not nearly enough time to save the world."

"Aye," he said quietly, almost as if he didn't know what else there was to say. And what could  _anyone_ have said that could capture the hopelessness of their current situation?

Sansa understood the sentiment—the all-consuming fear that came with having to face an unstoppable opponent—but this time, there wasn't the promise of another army to save them from destruction, nor was there even a guarantee that the enemy soldiers could die in the same way most men could. The Army of the Dead had many more tools in their arsenal to kill her men than they had to defeat the wights, never mind the White Walkers.

She made a mental note to ask Arya how her smith was faring—the handsome, dark-haired one that spoke like he was from the slums of Flea Bottom, but whom Jon had told her was the last person alive with Baratheon blood. Hopefully, he had been able to forge enough weapons from the dragonglass that her people might at least stand a chance.

"Where will you be, Podrick...when the fighting starts?" She blurted out the question, heat flaring in her cheeks at the brazenness of her statement. She wasn't his girl, although there must be someone, a sweet maid from Winter Town perhaps, that should be asking him what the chances are that he would come back to her.  _He certainly is attractive enough,_ she thought, feeling her blush darken even further at the thought.

As the boy next to her looked down mutely, a redness appearing on the back of his neck, Sansa indulged herself for a brief moment to pretend that she was just a girl, not a Lady with the responsibilities of an entire kingdom weighing her down. She remembered how he was in King's Landing, back when he was still Tyrion Lannister's squire, all round cheeks and broad smiles and stumbling over his every word. But now...now she saw the dark fringe of hair that fell onto his forehead and wondered what it might be like to run her hand through it; she saw how his jaw had become more pronounced, but his cheeks were still slightly rounded and although his smile was given less often, it was still broad and joyous; she, almost subconsciously, saw how his physique had filled out, time and all of his training with Brienne had made him look like a man, albeit one not much older than herself.

But more than that, she saw the kindness and warmth in his eyes.

Her father would have said,  _That is what is most important, Sansa dear. A true knight is one who can still find it within themselves to be kind._ She remembered how she had once argued against his father's offer to find her someone  _brave and gentle and strong,_ and insisted that she only wanted Joffrey.

It felt like a lifetime ago, but the woman she was now could see the value in what her father was trying to teach her: that not all princes are as brave and gentle as they are supposed to be. And she had seen firsthand that sometimes there are more honorable knights among the Podrick Paynes and Brienne of Tarths of the world than in the Kingsguard.

"I'm going to be in the van," Podrick finally spoke, forcing her out of her memories with what felt like an icy pail of water in her face—one of Arya's favorite tricks to play on her when they were young.

"What do you mean?" She demanded, finally turning to look at him, taken aback by the sheer expressiveness of his brown eyes. Sansa could see his determination to do what was right and good, but also his fear at the prospect of being in the vanguard whenever Jon inevitably called the men to arms.

"Lady Brienne, she's going to be in the van, so as her squire, my duty is to be right beside her," he explained. The answer was obvious to them both, but she needed to hear it come from his own mouth, his own courage and daring to fight alongside his lady.

But, that didn't mean she was not concerned about two of the people she trusted the most in the world fighting on the front lines of a very nearly un-winnable battle.

"She would never ask you to..." she started, momentarily at a loss for words at his declaration.

"That's why I didn't ask," Podrick chuckled lightly, but the lightness didn't quite mask the way he was still clearly on edge and filled to the brim with nerves.

"I would not expect anything less," Sansa replied, coolly slipping back into her Lady of Winterfell façade to keep the unsteady onslaught of sheer terror at bay. They were at war, but she was terrified of losing anymore of those closest to her.

"Thank you, my la-lady," he smiled bashfully, stumbling only slightly when he forgot to withhold the title, but she let it go unaddressed. If he was as scared as she was, it was understandable that he might revert to his own formal persona.

"I should not be keeping you," she finally said, looking down at her hands. "The last few hours before a battle are usually stressful, are they not? I'm sure there is someone who needs you by their side more than I do at the moment. Brienne might need your help with her armor," she finished lamely, not wanting to give voice to her suspicion that he had a girl waiting for him. She wanted this moment, this inexplicable  _thing_ that she felt with him, to last forever.

Podrick's eyes flickered with hurt, but also with a bit of mischief when she chanced a glance up at them, before quickly returning her gaze out across the Northern plains. "I hope I'm not being too forward, my lady, but I do not think Lady Brienne would appreciate my company right now."

She met his eyes, a playful smirk tugging at her lips. The older woman was so steadfast and naïve, almost innocent in a way, that she was surprised at Podrick's insinuation. "Why would that be?" A lilting quality seeped into her tone that she hadn't heard from herself in some time.

His round cheeks flared in a bright blush, and he suddenly refused to meet her eyes, his mouth opening and closing several times before the words actually escaped him. "I saw Jaime Lannister heading towards her chambers as I was coming up here. I don't think he noticed me though."

It was Sansa's turn to blush, thinking of all the indecent reasons the aging, albeit still handsome, knight would have to visit the Maid of Tarth's chambers in the hours before a potentially life-ending fight.

"I can't say I'm surprised," she laughed, a smile breaking over her face as she remembered the way Jaime had looked at Brienne when he was brought into the Great Hall that morning, and the way she had returned his gaze with an intense look of her own.

She thought back to all the times that Brienne had defended "Ser Jaime" and his honor, practically singing the man's praises, and the realization that had dawned on her when Jaime nearly turned his back on Jon and Daenerys to look back at Brienne before telling the horrified room about the truth behind his kingslaying: her sworn sword had already known one of the best kept, life-altering, secrets in the whole Seven Kingdoms. She remembered watching how the lady warrior's bright blue eyes never left the eldest Lannister brother, and how she was the first one he turned to when Sansa's own brother and the Dragon Queen decided not to execute him.

He looked at her like he had seen a ghost, or something out of a dream.

"I once would have given everything I had to have someone look at me that way. I still think that, occasionally," Sansa admitted shyly, almost as if she was ashamed to still hold on to a kernel of the romantic ideals of her younger self.

"Like what?" Podrick breathed, his eyes slowly meeting hers and she could see the confusion quickly give way to understanding. "Surely someone as beautiful as you would have suitors who lov-I mean, you are beautiful, bu-but I didn't mean to offend or imply, my lady."

"It's quite alright, Podrick," she took pity on him, because as his cheeks turned even more red, his sentences started spilling out all at once. "I thank you for the compliment, but I don't think anyone has ever looked at me the way Ser Jaime looks at Brienne. Both of my husbands didn't love me...for various reasons...and I don't think Joffrey was even capable of that sort of affection."

She didn't even want to mention the looks Littlefinger had once given her, full of lust and ambition and power.

"I'm so sorry," he replied simply, but with genuine sympathy underscoring his words. And it was then that she realized that she preferred Podrick's direct nature, his honest emotion that filled every sentence he uttered, instead of the half-truths and pretty lies of court.

 _It's a very Northern quality for a Southerner to have,_ she thought with an internal smirk, before her thoughts turned sad once more.

"My friend, Jeyne Poole, and I used to sit and fantasize about being the fair maidens in the songs we heard. Jenny of Oldstones and Florian and Jonquil, those were always our favorites," she paused and looked at Podrick, seeing him staring at her intently, giving her his ear. "We were closer than sisters—maybe even closer than Arya and I are even today—and we would sit in the yard, watching Robb and Jon and Theon practice with Ser Rodrick. I used to say that if she married Robb, we would be real sisters and how happy I would be to have her instead of Arya. But she always laughed it off, saying how she much preferred Theon, Theon with his charming smile and dark eyes." Sansa chuckled fondly at the way her friend would fawn over the Greyjoy ward, who had, in fact, turned out to be the brave man they had thought him to be. "She used to say, 'That's who I want to marry one day. He'll be my kraken knight and take me across the sea on great adventures.'"

"What happened to her?" He asked tentatively, almost as if he was afraid to voice the question. But it was a logical one for him to ask, since there was no Jeyne Poole in Winterfell anymore...just one more part of her childhood erased by the Boltons and Cersei.

"The sad thing is," Sansa admitted, feeling the tears well up in her eyes as she thought about her lost friend. "I never even asked. She disappeared after my father was imprisoned, and I was  _so worried_ about being the perfect little princess, of being  _worthy_ of Joffrey, that I never asked where she had gone." She felt one tear, and then a second escape her eyes, dripping onto the snow-covered ledge, two perfect holes in the blanket of white. "You'll probably think me mad, but I hope Theon finds her, wherever she is. He wasn't her kraken knight back then, but I believe he's up to the task now. She deserves as much—a rescue just like one that would be in our songs."

"I don't think that's mad at all...to want happiness for your friend. And you mustn't blame yourself," he argued gently, the squire's usually gentle tone layered with steel and certainty. "You were just a child, my lady."

She no longer blamed herself for what might have happened to Jeyne Poole, but she  _had_ vowed that if, when this war was over, her friend still had not been heard from, she would use everything she had left to find her again. But, for the time being, there was nothing she could do.

Unwilling to let another misspeak go unnoticed, she let out a thin but true laugh. "I thought I asked you to dispense with the formalities, Podrick."

The young man blushed to the roots of his dark hair, and Sansa couldn't help but feel herself becoming even more endeared to the earnest squire than she already was.  _I think I found someone, Father,_ she found herself thinking.  _Someone brave and gentle and strong...someone I think I could love._

"W-w-what would I call you?" He asked in genuine confusion, his hands flexing nervously inside his gloves.

"I think 'Sansa' will do just fine," she answered dryly, the corner of her lips quirking up in amusement.

"Alright, my Sansa, I mean,  _Sansa,_ " he stuttered his way through the awkwardness of the unfamiliar address, and she found that she didn't mind the term of endearment, "my Sansa," when it came from him—it didn't sound possessive in the slightest, but affectionate. "But, then you should just call me, 'Pod,' everyone else does already."

"Very well, Pod," she agreed, delighting in the way the simple moniker rolled off her tongue with ease, and regally inclined her head, almost as if she was forging a great alliance...but, then again, her heart never skipped a beat when she spoke to Lord Royce to ask for his continued allegiance.

The thought of the war immediately brought her thoughts crashing back to reality, and as she turned to walk to the other side of the rampart—the side that overlooked the interior of Winterfell—she could hear the clanging of armor and men's shouts.

"The dead must be almost here," she remarked glumly. The night sky was rapidly darkening, the stars appearing as little sparks of light in the heavens, forming constellations she knew by heart but didn't have the time to find. Soon enough, her flaming-red braid would be one of the few spots of color left in the North.

"I should get going," Pod said reluctantly as he observed the preparations that were underway. "Do you need me to escort you to the crypts, m-Sansa? Or to your chambers?"

Sansa shook her head, wanting to stay on these ramparts, breathing in the cool Northern air for as long as she could. She wanted to preserve this precious moment with Pod, the peace, the reminiscence, the care she felt in the time they had been talking. She felt as if her whole life had brought her back to the stumbletongue squire, who was much too old to be a squire, and to this moment: the last true, pure moment she would have in her home. Whatever happened, even if the living managed to prevail in the battle to come, she knew that Winterfell would not come out of the fight unscathed, nor would any of them.

Pod seemed to read her mind, or maybe it was the dutiful squire in him—knowing when he was not needed. "I'll find your sister; she'll be willing to protect you."

Sansa nodded at his thoughtfulness, knowing that she would feel more comfortable surrounded by her family, and that her deadly little sister was the best protection she could ask for, nor would she want anyone else by her side tonight.

"Check the forges first," she said lightly, remembering the way Arya looked at her smith. "She might have had a similar idea to Ser Jaime: taking one last chance to say goodbye to the ones we love."

Pod gave her a nod of his own, a shy smile on his face, and she was struck once again by the handsomeness of his features. The falling snow was melting in his hair, making him look like a portrait of a knight she would have once fawned over, but he was much more than a painting of an idealized hero...because he was  _real._ He was earnest and courageous and clumsy and nervous and more noble than many lords she has known.

 _Until the sun comes up tomorrow,_ she thought, a foolish idea running through her mind. "Pod!" Sansa called out, despite the fact that he hadn't moved very far.

"Yes, my-I mean, Sansa," he turned around, something akin to hope shining in his eyes.

"I think it might be my turn to be forward," she blushed, her courage from mere seconds before slipping from her grasp, "but there isn't...a  _girl_ in Winter Town you didn't get to see because you were here with me, is there?"

The bright red blush spread across his neck and cheeks once again, but Sansa knew her own face was also quickly becoming a shade not unlike Lannister crimson. "No, there's no one...like  _that._ And it was an honor being in your company tonight."

"Was that all it was?" She asked softly, her heart sinking at the formality of the sentiment, but she looked him in the eyes—Tully blue meeting warm brown, a shade that should have looked ordinary, but on Pod, looked like the most unique color she had ever seen—and hoped that he could read her wish that was held there.

"No, Sansa," he said quietly, the admission clear in his voice, "not just an honor."

Emboldened by the insinuation, Sansa took a single step forward, but that brought her close enough to be within mere inches of the squire. She felt the heat radiating from his body, and her heart was beating so rapidly, she was certain he must be able to hear it.

 _Why is it so difficult to ask?_ Sansa thought to herself, trying to muster up the courage necessary to utter the next sentence.  _I faced down Joffrey at the point of a crossbow, I survived the Battle of Blackwater Bay and the Battle of the Bastards, I fed Ramsay to his own bloody hounds without a second thought, but I can't..._

She was Sansa Stark, and she was not going to face the rest of the night without at least asking.

"Can I have one moment more?" She asked softly, her eyes searching his face for any sign that he was put off by her words, and finding only affection and empathy and something deeper, something more real than anything she thought she would ever find. "Can I have my song?  Where the brave knight kisses the fair maiden goodbye, and that means all will be right in the land in the end?"

She saw his breath hitch in his chest, and for a heartbeat, she thought she had pressed too far, that she had misread his feelings, thereby ruining her one perfect moment. But, as he took a step closer, a hand reaching out, she met him halfway, her fingers intertwining with his in a way that made her wish that she could press her palm to his without the barrier of gloves. To feel the comfort, support, understanding, and...something not quite love, but dangerously close that was only intensified by the simple act of having the bare skin of her hand against his.

"But I'm not a knight," Pod whispered, even as he leaned forward, their foreheads gently resting against one another.

"And I'm not a maiden." Sansa knew the risks of kissing him at that moment: he was about to go fight in a battle against the dead; she might never see him again, as one or the both of them could be killed before sunup; and if they both survived, she was likely to remain the Lady of Winterfell, and she might be forced into yet another political marriage.

But she also knew that she wanted one kiss, just one, with no ulterior motive. One kiss that  _she_ wanted, with someone  _she_ wanted and who wanted to kiss her. That there could be someone in this world, someone she had managed to find, that might be able to love her despite what she had become,  _because_ of who she had become. And that she would not die never knowing what such a kiss could be like.

Yet, as she inclined her head ever so slightly, their lips brushing together in the barest hint of a kiss—before his other hand came up to gently cup her face, pressing their lips more solidly together—it all faded away. Her whole world narrowed down to her, the snow falling on the ramparts, the cold wind blowing through her cloak, and the boy holding her hand. The boy who was kissing her like she hadn't known she could be kissed—all soft and slow and sweet. It was a promise that he would come back to her, even though they both knew she would never deign to ask such a thing from him.

They broke apart slowly, drifting away rather than either making any kind of conscious decision to end the kiss, Pod giving her hand a light squeeze as they did so. The world filtered back into focus just as slowly, and Sansa could now hardly see if not for the torchlight that was beginning to light the walls of Winterefll, the sounds of the men becoming more insistent by the second.

Before either could say anything further, the horn blew—one short blast that Jon had said would be the initial warning that the undead were arriving soon, likely within the hour. It meant that she had to let Pod go get ready for the battle, just like the maiden would in a song. But it was her song now too, and as Lady of Winterfell, she needed to make sure her men were ready for the fight ahead, the fight of their lives. The fight  _for_ all life.

Realizing that there was scant time left she had with him, Sansa reached up with her free hand to quickly untie the leather cord that secured the end of her fiery braid, remembering the tourneys at King's Landing. Looking pointedly at his wrist, she reluctantly released his hand and extended the strip of leather in offering.

With a shy smile, Pod unstrapped the gauntlet at his right wrist, exposing the shirt underneath. She pushed the fabric up his forearm so she could tie her favor around the pale skin of his wrist, crossing the long cord several times until she was certain it wouldn't interfere with his fighting.

"Go," she nudged him gently, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth, a promise of her own that she would be waiting for him.  _When this night is over,_ she thought as he gave her another kiss, this one sending a shiver through her as he pressed his lips to the sliver of skin of her own wrist that was exposed between her glove and the sleeve of her dress,  _I am certain that you will have more than earned your knighthood._ "I'll be inside shortly."

"One more moment?" He asked cheekily, and she couldn't help but laugh at the thought of any other moment of her life being able to live up to the innumerable moments she had made this evening with Pod.

"Not exactly," she smiled mischievously, the spirit of Margaery Tyrell apparently possessing her for a heartbeat or two. "I just don't imagine it would look very proper if we go into the yard together, lips swollen and pink cheeked. What will everyone say?"

Pod laughed heartily, but nodded respectfully, giving her one last, lingering look before he disappeared down the rampart's steps.

She turned once more to look out at the North, the snow-covered plains glistening in moon- and torchlight, hearing the cries of the birds and the clang of steel, breathing in her homeland until it filled her up with memories of home and belonging and  _hope._ She hadn't quite lied to Pod or to herself, because while nothing could compare to the past few moments, she did need one more.

Just one more.

One moment to pray like she hasn't in ages. She wasn't even sure if it would do much help, but she had to try. To pray to her father's old gods in the Weirwood tree and to her mother's Seven. To the Lord of Light that had brought Jon back and to the Drowned God of the Iron Islanders.

For one more moment, she prayed for her brother and his Dragon Queen and all of their armies to survive the coming night.

She prayed for Brienne and Jaime, and that they had managed to admit to the love they so clearly held for one another. And that neither would make a foolishly noble decision that both were so apparently prone to making, because their lives were worth too much to her and to each other.

She prayed that Jeyne was alive somewhere, that she had found the strength she kept so well hidden, in order to survive, and that she would come back to Winterfell when this was all over. And that Theon was out there to remind her to make new songs for herself and for them both to find their way home.

She prayed for Arya and her smith—she really must learn the Baratheon boy's name soon—and that her sister let herself remember that she was just a child, a wounded, traumatized child, but a child nonetheless, and that it was all right to leave her heart vulnerable to those worthy of it.

She prayed for Ser Davos and little Lady Lyanna Mormont, for the commander of the Unsullied and Daenerys' advisor, for Jon's friend Samwell and sweet Gilly and innocent Little Sam, for the gruff Hound and wild Tormund, for Beric whom Arya had said has been killed six times already and the dolorous Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, and even for Lord Varys and Tyrion Lannister.

She even found herself praying for the dragons that will carry her brother and the Targaryen queen into battle, and for Ghost and Nymeria, the last direwolves the world might ever know.

She prayed for Podrick Payne, the most loyal of squires, and the bravest, gentlest, strongest, and noblest man she had ever met. For the man she was falling in love with, with his quiet strength and stumbling tongue and easily reddened cheeks. For her knight from her very own song that wasn't actually a knight, but was braver than many granted the title of "Ser." For Pod, the boy who had given her a perfect moment amid the storm of war.

But Sansa prayed for herself as well. Not just for her own survival—which she wasn't above asking the gods for—but that she would have the honor of her father and the grace of her mother. For the courage of Robb and that little bit of wildness that had lived in Rickon. For Bran's wisdom and Arya's nerve. She prayed that her own determination, her own strength, her own will, would be be enough to get her people through the long night to come.

Her father was fond of saying,  _When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies but the pack survives._ Her pack was strong, somehow both larger and smaller than it had been years ago when she first left home, and they would survive.

Sansa's eyes fluttered open, the moment ending as she turned away from the outside wall, saying what she hoped was not her final goodbye to the North. She made a silent vow, held deep within her heart, that if they survived the battle and her home was not in ruins, that she would stand in that same spot with Pod to watch the sun rise for one more perfect moment.

**Author's Note:**

> So that is my half-realistic half-wishful scenario of what could happen between SanPod next ep, even though we are not going to get anything like this, I wanted to make it pretty plausible.
> 
> Don't be afraid to leave reviews or kudos, I love them all!
> 
> Skip the rest of this if you don't want to know some of the weird details I wanted to point out (let me know if you caught any!) and explain some.
> 
> I was just thinking/worrying about the next ep and that scene of Sansa asking Pod for her first true kiss (a la Drew Barrymore in Never Been Kissed) and giving him her favor to wear just sprung up fully formed in my head. And then the rest followed.
> 
> So, as a die-hard Braime fangirl, I couldn't resist adding an allusion to the infamous "I dreamed of you" line from the books. I tried to lay out how I thought the Trial of Jaime Lannister is going to go, in that I really do think he'll have to tell Dany about the wildfire, based on how pissed she seems in the 8x02 promo. And we better be getting some good BriennexJaime interaction next ep or I will be LIVID.
> 
> And the obvious callback to Ned and Sansa's "someone brave and gentle and strong" convo in Season 1, because it just applies so well to SanPod.
> 
> Also the "pack survives" convo because if that doesn't describe the Starks to a T, I don't know what else does.
> 
> One of my favorite book storylines (and one of my least favorite changes to the show) is Jeyne Poole and Theon's story in ADWD. It is just so tragic and I love the arc for both of them and how it shows the Boltons/Lannisters to be so desperate to hang on to the North. So I wanted to find a semi-plausible way to work it into show-canon. I wish show-Sansa, who I adore don't get me wrong, remembered her friend, but I get why they don't mention it. But I think that the transformation she's had lends itself to at least a conversation with someone about the friend she left behind.
> 
> Also, if you've gotten to the bottom of this absurdly long A/N, I'm impressed since I don't really do these long of notes. I am definitely thinking of writing more depending on how the show goes, so let me know if you would be interested in more, of this pairing or another! (But it'll likely be more SanPod unless we get some Braime action)
> 
> Thank you again to everyone who took the time to read this fic, I'm so incredibly appreciative of you all!!


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